Ocean Blue
by Heyitscatnip
Summary: Shay Farley Cresta, a girl with the ability to tell if someone is lying, grew up with her parents mentoring the games every year and without much explanation of the world she lived in. Shay, now sixteen years old, wants the truth, but it isn't that easy to acquire. She must decide if the truth is worth fighting for, and what she is willing to give up in order to have it.
1. Prologue

_"That's what it means to be human, after all. _

_To fight for those who are good and refuse the others when they try to extinguish your light. " ~Shay Farley Cresta_

* * *

**_Ocean Blue is a sequel to A World Without Hate. You can find this story on my instagram. If you don't want to, here is a quick overview so you can better understand Ocean Blue! Thanks for reading!_**

* * *

Sea Farley was chosen as the female tribute for District 4 in the first ever Hunger Games. With no experience and no idea of what she was about to face, she entered the arena with her district partner, Tray Kimberly. As Sea began to understand how the games worked, a hatred for the Capitol grew within her. When Tray died in an earthquake near the end of the games, Sea was left with only Red Cresta, a snarky boy from district eight, as an ally. After he was caught from behind by the remaining tribute, Sea came out of those games as victor, and as she was getting ready for her last interview, her stylist whispered in her ear that Red was in fact still alive.

Sea returned home to district 4 and dealt with her nightmares and visions until the reaping came around once more. Sea's friend Jersey Odair was picked for the games, and with Sea's help, managed to win. Sea then found Red Cresta in the Capitol and they recognized their love for each other. Sea, upon finding the man she was to spend the rest of her life with, realized that she could not start a roaring revolution there and then, like she wanted to. It was too soon after the first uprising. But she had started something. And every revolution must begin with a spark.


	2. Doing What We're Told

Most people come out here because it's quiet.

I come because it's loud.

I suck in a deep breath and watch the red sun disappearing behind the waves that reach until the earth curves. The sand beneath my fingers is damp from high tide, and a pale crab scurries quickly across my hand. No one's talking, no one's moving. No one's here. Yet noise pounds around inside of my head, rattling my skull. Silence tends to speak louder than words.

It's nice to get away from the lies sometimes. It can work on someone's mind when all they hear are lies, lies, and more lies. All I want is to take in some good clean truths. I need to hear a fact, an opinion, anything that isn't constructed to deceive me. Don't they know I can tell when their lips form words they don't mean?

I tuck my French braid into the back of my scarf and stand up quickly, slipping into my worn-down sandals.

The ocean is beautiful, just as it is everyday, but one cannot watch it for too long. It stares me down, taunts me, and draws me to it. I could swim until I reached the curve of the earth, until I fell off the edge. I'd never come back to Panem, to District 4.

I glance once more at the sun glancing off of the waves and turn on my heel, kicking up sand behind me.

The beach ends in no time, and the cold air of fall in the south hits my cheeks, reminding me all at once that I am no longer protected by the empty sand, and am instead being watched by every blinking eye as I approach the square.

"Hey Shay," a man calls to me as I hop over the old pothole that sits in the middle of the road.

I nod to him quickly, although I have not the slightest clue who he is. I'm Shay Farley Cresta, though, and around here that name is famous. I reach into my beige overcoat and pull out the crisp white notepad that lies in my pocket. I shake my head slightly, not enough so anyone could notice, and pull my scarf closer to my chin.

"Good evening, Ms. Cresta," another woman says, bowing her head at me as she sweeps her porch. I offer her a minute smile but no words. What am I supposed to say to the people living in shacks that line the outskirts of the city? Good day to you to? I hope you don't get shot? I bite the inside of my lip to keep from blurting anything that will get me arrested and sigh in relief as my eyes find the stage set up just for me and my family.

"Welcome," my mother is saying as I quietly climb up the stairs and take a seat next to my dad, whose foot is tapping anxiously against the floor. It isn't often you see Red Cresta anxious.

"My name is Sea Farley," my mother continues, grabbing the podium so tightly her knuckles turn white.

Everyone in the crowd nods politely, although they already know who she is. Her speech is scripted, though, and changing the words could mean all our deaths.

"I am here today to remind the lovely citizens of District four that we would not be here if it were not for the Capitol. They provide us with protection from the unspeakable things lurking outside of the city limits, and keep order in our fragile but prosperous community." Sea swallows loudly, beads of sweat rolling down the back of her neck.

"I thank you, District four," she continues, her voice shaking slightly. "For being so supportive of our government and of our system."

She turns quickly and walks back to her seat, her eyes glazed over as if she's just finished watching the games.

I step up, my legs steadier than I would have thought.

"Good evening," I say, testing my voice in the microphone. "I'm Shay Farley Cresta. The Capitol has done more for me than I could have ever asked." I glance down at the flash card before me. "They have offered me shelter, and supper, and clothing. They have offered me an education, an opportunity. They have offered the games, which keep those who despise our race in line." I shutter as I look at the last piece. "I am forever in debt to the nation of Panem. I will do anything in my power to repay them. I would give my family, I would give my humanity. I would give my life."

I step away from the podium, scowling, and tuck the notepad into my pocket.

I know what else I'm supposed to say, and I don't need the Capitol's words staring back at me to do so.

"The 26th games are approaching, and we ask, as a community, that you do not let the events of the recent quarter quell hinder your thoughts towards one another, nor towards Panem."

I bow my head at them and walk quickly offstage, my fists clenched tightly.

"I'm sorry you had to say all that, Shay," my dad murmurs next to my ear, his feet moving in time with mine.

"It doesn't mean anything," I say harsher than I intended to. "They're just saving their own skin. Can't have a rebellion now, can we?" My father nods, his eyes flashing and slows his pace, letting me pull ahead. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I make my way to the victors village. It doesn't matter what I tell these people, it won't change what they think, what they do. The threat of the games and of death is too large. No one has enough bravery to speak up, including me.

That's why I don't know the truth yet. That's why I'm so sheltered from the realities of Panem.

I'm not brave.

Without glancing down, I begin to run, my sandals pounding against the ground, my corduroys hugging my thighs, the salty air filling my lungs. I've said that same speech one hundred times, and it's never had any effect on me. I don't know why it does now, on an ordinary Sunday night, in the middle of March.

I guess that's the price of being famous.

You do what they tell you, and slowly, without warning, it breaks you apart.

* * *

The path leading out of the square is made of faded brick. I make sure to step on each one as I walk, until they begin to disappear and are replaced by only dirt.

I watch the children play on the beach, their blonde heads bobbing as they trip in the sand. They're all sitting in a circle, their little hands pounding against their knees in time with my heartbeat. The path curves towards them and I follow it, straining my ears to hear what they are singing.

"People are dying,

Children are crying.

Concentrate."

I shove my hands into my pockets and continue on, still watching the kids, no older than six, singing their song.

"Tears stream,

The rebels scream.

Concentrate."

A rebellion song. My feet come to a stop and I stare at them, surrounded by the beautiful evening light.

"Bones break,

we lay awake.

Concentrate."

They can't sing that. They can't.

"People are dying,

Children are crying.

Concentrate."

The scream rips through my throat and somehow I find the will to move my feet again. I run faster than I have ever run, stumbling over the rocks in my way, tearing along the path until my breath escapes me and I am forced to come to a stop.

I glance up at the house I have halted in front of.

The door is a light blue, the windows rimmed in gold. I skip the front steps two at a time and pound on the door twice. It doesn't take him long to answer.

"Shay," he says, looking surprised. "What are you-"

I push past him, slamming the door behind me, and collapse at his kitchen table.

"Can I have some water?" I demand suddenly.

He nods, reaching into his cupboard without taking his puzzled gaze off of me. I snatch the glass from him and let the cool liquid seep into my throat.

"Thanks," I say, breathless.

"Now you get to tell me what's going on," he says, sitting down across from me.

"Jersey, I don't-" I begin, but this time he cuts me off.

"You don't get to say that you don't want to talk about it. You're here and so you get to talk."

"I'm not very good at talking," I mutter.

"Neither is your mother," Jersey chuckles, standing up. "Fine. You don't have to talk."

"I'm scared," I blurt suddenly, wringing my hands together in my lap. "About the games. About District 4. About what I have to say to these people day after day."

He stares at me with those golden eyes and nods.

"You wouldn't be human if you weren't scared," he says finally, turning back to the dishwasher. "I was scared when I got picked for the games."

"No," I say, frustrated. "I'm not scared about getting picked. Hell, it might be a good break from all of this."

"Don't say that," he interrupts harshly. "Never say that."

I ignore him and continue talking. "I'm tired of feeding these people lies. That's all anyone ever tells me, lies. And I'm tired of it. Aren't they?"

Jersey sighs and wipes his hands on a dish towel.

"I don't know, Shay. I can't tell if someone is lying like you can. I don't know the difference between a truth and a lie. So I don't let it bother me."

I don't say anything, and instead stare at his face.

"Okay," I whisper after a moment. "Thanks Jersey."

He nods. "Anytime Shay."

With a last wave, I let myself out of his house and cross over two more to mine. The reaping isn't for another two weeks. I have time to find my level head again, to realize that it's my choice if I am to tell people lies or not. I have to, if I don't want my family killed. I step into my house and let the warm air from the heater surround my body. I glance only once over my shoulder, at the ocean, and see the children in their circle.

I shutter, a shiver running down my spine.

People are dying, children are crying. Concentrate.


	3. A Little Green Dress

_**A/N: The characters, plot, and dialogue in Ocean Blue all belong to me. The world in which it is set in belongs to Suzanne Collins. Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy. Reviews are welcome.**_

I wake up feeling like horse crap. I fall out of bed, knocking my head against the stained dresser that sits against the wall. Moaning, I drag my blanket behind me to the bathroom and absently turn the hot water knob in the shower to full blast. I shimmy out of my pajamas and step under the scalding stream, hissing as it burns my skin. Instead of actually washing myself, I simply stand in the shower, letting the water fall over my hair until I'm convinced it's clean enough and doesn't smell like dirt. Then I stumble back out of the shower, dry myself off with a pink towel, and pull on my corduroys and beige coat. Lastly, I wrap my blue scarf around my neck and slip into my short, leather boots. I clomp down the stairs three at a time, swiftly tying my hair into a French braid.

"Shay, do you want any breakfast?" Sea asks, poking her head in from the kitchen.

"No," I say flatly, not bothering to glance at her.

She knows what I want; she has for many years. I want the truth about her past. I don't mean that she was a victor, of course I know that. I want to know why she wakes up screaming every night, calling for Tray or Haley. I want to know why Red has to hold her until her breathing evens out again. But she won't tell me.

"Have a good day at school," she sighs as I run by. I slam the door behind me, almost rocking the house.

"Yeah," I mutter as I walk down the path. "Will do."

The schoolyard is quiet apart from a few kids standing here and there. I push past all of them and through the doors, making sure not to meet anyone's eye.

"Shay," a tall boy says, nodding his head at me.

"Brent," I nod back unenthusiastically. I turn the corner and quickly slip into room 120 just as the bell is ringing.

"Nice of you to join us, Ms. Cresta," Mrs. Brandon says accusingly. I glance sheepishly at her and take my seat in the back of the room, in-between Emerald Zimmer and some kid with bright blonde hair, almost white.

My eyes settle on the board and I hunker down, hoping the bell signaling two o'clock will come soon.

* * *

I slide out of my desk and join the crowds in the hallway to the cafeteria. I settle down in one of the blue plastic chairs in the far corner of the room and begin to gnaw absently on an apple.

"It's bad for my reputation to always hang out with a grumpy girl, you know," Cedar says, flopping down across from me.

"It's bad for my reputation to always hang out with a boy who's got attitude," I retort. Cedar chuckles and grabs my apple, taking a quick bite out of the good side.

I watch him eating the apple, a silent sigh escaping his mouth.

I've seen people who treat food like a gift from the heavens. I know what kind of people get that look on their face when they're eating for the first time in days.

"Cedar do you have lunch today?" I ask quietly.

"No," he answers after a moment. "Not enough money came in this week."

Although I did nothing wrong, guilt begins to settle in the pit of my stomach. He is my best friend, and his family is starving while I have enough money to buy myself a car.

"Here," I say, reaching into my backpack and pulling out a half-eaten pack of crackers. "Take this."

Usually Cedar Moore would be too kind to want to take anything from me, but today he does. Today he gratefully snatches the crackers out of my hand and stuffs them into his mouth. I can't imagine how hungry he must be.

"You should come to dinner tonight," I say as he eats. "I'll tell my mom to make something."

He nods gratefully, but looks embarrassed to have to take food from another family. I wish he wouldn't. We have more than we can eat anyways.

"How's it going with your mom anyhow?" he asks, swinging his feet up so they rest on the rim of the table.

"You mean our fight?" I ask, sighing. He nods, taking another bite of apple.

"She won't tell me anything. I ask about her past and she shuts down. She says there's nothing special about what happened when she was young, but I know there is. She won't even tell me why she wakes up every night screaming. Does she think I'm going to ignore it?"

Cedar shrugs, straightening his back to take on the role of counselor.

"Maybe it's hard for her to talk about," he suggests.

"Hard for her," I echo.

"Yeah. She could be battling something inside, something that is hard for her to release."

I think Cedar is slightly desperate to keep my family functioning. We're all he's got, after all.

We finish lunch and throw our shared apple core into the trashcan that sits near our table. It's why no one else comes near us. It smells like rotten eggs over here. Of course, the other reason is that I have made it obviously clear that anyone who bothers us will get a fist in the nose. And I will stick by that promise.

We walk out of the mess hall side by side. His large feet, made for swimming, fall hard on the ground, while mine, small and good for running, land without a sound.

I would be good for the games.

The thought scares me. I've been doing that lately, comparing myself to that of a victor. Do I think I could win? Do I think I'd like them? They're hell, I get that. But I'm not allowed to watch them, my parents won't talk about them, and everyone avoids the topic as much as they can. All I know is District 4 hasn't had a victor since Jersey Odair in the second games. I know I've never put my name in the reaping myself; my parents have gone to do it, saying it's better that way.

"Are you coming to the bonfire tomorrow?" Cedar asks, knocking his hip against mine.

"I don't have much choice in the matter," I mumble. "But yeah I'll be there."

"Good," he responds, ruffling my light hair. "I'll see you tonight for dinner, blue-eyed girl." With that, he bounds away to his next class.

I come to a slow stop and stare at the door marked 134 in front of me. Math doesn't need me and I don't need it. I turn quickly, ducking my head, and walk quickly back through the cafeteria and through the front doors. I'll go to Urchin's place. I like it better there anyhow. And she doesn't lie to me.

* * *

The bell jingles as I step into the bait shop, tapping my boots against the step to knock the dirt off. A blanket of fog and sea salt falls over me and I cough, sending dust spiraling through the air.

"Urchin?" I call through a cough. I step around a lone fish head on the wooden floor and continue making my way deeper into the musty store.

The bait shop is one known to all those who aren't lapdogs of the Capitol. It sells almost anything you could think of- from bait for the fishermen to morphling for the addicts. Urchin runs it and always has for all I know. The shop sits in the middle of town, with an abandoned sushi place on it's right and an expensive candy shop on it's left. It used to be used for exports of seafood to the other districts, but the Capitol banned that a few years back and it became a black market of sorts.

"Urchin?" I call again, brushing my hand along the fur coats that line one of the racks.

"Shay?" her wrinkly voice calls back and she steps out of the backroom, her hair flying out in every direction. She straightens her back when she sees me and takes a drag of her cigar, sending a fresh wave of stench into the air.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" she rasps, glaring at me. I ignore her and take a seat on one of the broken stools.

"What's on the menu?" I ask, squinting at the paper sign hanging above her that she never updates.

"Fish soup," she growls. "Just like every other day."

The old woman continues to scowl at me as I tap my fingers against the counter. I know she hates being bothered during the day, but I get the feeling that deep down she enjoys the company. No one is a true loner. Everyone wants to feel loved.

"You're going to get yourself kicked out of school," she points out, slamming down a bowl in front of me.

"And then I'll get to be with you more," I smile. She spits in my bowl, giving me a reproachful stare.

"Eat your soup and leave," she says.

I pick up the spoon and let the hot liquid wash down my dry throat. Urchin may be a grumpy old woman, but she is a good cook.

Urchin has been in District 4 her entire life, she told me so. She was born into a poor family, as most people in Panem are, and was raised by a fisherman and an unemployed mother who had Polio. This shop was her stroke of luck. She says she thanks God for it everyday. I can't help smiling at that, because there aren't many people in Panem who still believe in a greater power. I don't either. There isn't enough good in this world for there to be a God. Still, it's nice to know that some people still have hope. It's nice to know that not everyone believes humanity has gone bad.

I glance at my watch and throw down my bowl, cursing.

"Watch yourself," Urchin shouts, jumping back from the mess I've created.

"Sorry!" I shout, flinging some change on to the counter. "Keep the change."

I can feel her glare following me out to the streets of District 4. If looks could kill, Urchin would have been the death of me five times over.

I make it home by three. My pockets bulge with the change I stole from my mother this morning, and I'm shivering from head to toe, the cold air from the ocean finding it's way to shore. I step into my house, throwing my shoes off and hanging my coat on the hook. My mother is banging around in the kitchen when I walk in.

"Shay!" she exclaims. "How was school?"

"Fine. Math was a bore." She nods sympathetically. "I always hated math." I understand that she's trying to sympathize with me, but I know that she never took math. I know that without having to learn about her past. She was alive during a war, so no she didn't have to take math. Therefore she isn't allowed to say she hates it.

"Cedar's coming for dinner," I say after a minute, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Sea nods enthusiastically. "Okay! I'll make something nice tonight. And I set out some old clothes of mine you might like, if you want to take a look."

I give her a wide-eyed glance, surprised. My mother doesn't usually offer me things of hers, they're too special.

I walk slowly up the wooden steps, clinging to the railing as I go. My mother's room sits right at the top and the door is ajar.

The king sized bed is made neatly, a pile of clothing folded on top. My thin fingers slide under the first article and I pick it up gently, admiring the smooth silk fabric. It's a dark green dress, about knee-length with two thick straps. It's beautiful.

I bring the dress to my nose and inhale. It smells like soap and roses. Although I've never been there, I can't help being reminded of the Capitol. I bring it back to my room and slip into it, watching myself in the mirror as I go. The silk feels amazing against my skin- smooth and soft and fragile.

I walk downstairs faster this time. My feet carry me past the paintings lining the green walls and into the kitchen, where my mother is still bent over her recipe book.

She looks up with a smile when I walk in, but when she sees what I'm wearing her cheerful look falters.

"Mom?" I ask carefully, wary of the frightened look in her eyes.

"Tray," she whispers. "On the train." Then tears spill over her eyelids and she falls to the ground, her screams rattling the entire house.

If I were a decent child, I'd run to her now. I'd scream her name and try to figure out what's going on. Instead, I am frozen with fear, my feet glued to the ground, my fist clenching the hem of the dress.

Red comes running in after a minute of that, his eyes wide with fear. He glances at me but doesn't say anything. Then he's with Sea and his arms are around her and he's murmuring something in her ear.

"You have to explain," I say finally, when the house has gone quiet. "Now you have to. You can't hide from me anymore."

My dad looks up, his features masked. "Your friend's here," he says flatly. His eyes fall to my outfit. "And please take off that dress." I run upstairs, silently cursing out my father. Then I'm opening the front door and Cedar is stepping inside and I'm forcing a smile and I can't think about my family for a little while. I have to pretend my life with the two victors is fine and dandy and I have no complaints. But all I can think about is the green dress lying on the floor of my bedroom directly above our heads. The one that made me look beautiful. The one that made me look like a goddess. The one that made me look a bit too much like Sea Farley.


	4. Fire Beats Snow

_**A/N: Hey guys! Thank you to everyone who has viewed my story. Remember to review, as they are always appreciated and welcome. It only takes a few seconds! Thank you again. Enjoy. **_**_~ Abby_**

The dinner table is quiet. I push the mashed potatoes on my plate back and forth, vividly aware of the silence setting over the room like a heavy blanket. My Mom sits across from me, taking a miniscule bite every few seconds. I shift in my seat, his words echoing through my mind: "And please take off that dress."

"Thank you for having me," Cedar says, setting his fork carefully down on the white tablecloth and dabbing his lips with a napkin. "It was lovely."

I wrinkle my nose at him but don't say anything; afraid my parents will see. Although it is polite, there is no need for him to talk like that, like he's been offered an award.

"The mashed potatoes are good," I mumble, setting down my fork as well. There have been nights like this before, where my mom refuses to talk because she's off in her own little world and my dad becomes her protective shield and all of a sudden it doesn't matter that I'm their daughter because I'm the bad guy that makes her mother remember the past.

These nights are the worst.

"Thank you," Red responds for my mom, smiling at me. He hasn't been the same since the 25th games. I saw the spark in his eye before them. I noticed the witty comments he made. Then everyone voted on the tributes and he became reserved, holding back every comment, every smile. He's ordinary now, just another father trying to stay alive.

We sit in silence for another moment, our uneven breathing the only sound in the room.

"I'll walk Cedar out," I say finally, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and pushing my chair back quickly, causing the legs to screech across the polished floorboards.

"Thank you for coming," my dad says again, copying Cedar's sickeningly posh politeness. I scowl at both of them and hook my arm through my best friend's, pulling him quickly out of the dining room and into the hall.

"Well if that wasn't awkward, nothing is," he says, his shoulders slumping in relief.

"I don't know if I can sit through one more dinner with them," I hiss, slamming the door behind us as we step onto the porch. The cold spring air hits me hard and I stumble backwards. Cedar catches me with one hand and easily swings me back up into a standing position.

"Well aren't you just the drama queen of the week," he says, looking down at me. "How could Shay Farley Cresta possibly spend a bit of time with her family? And let alone while they're eating!" I punch him in the stomach.

"Ow," he pouts. "What was that for?"

"Don't sass me," I say firmly, trying to resist the smile making it's way onto my face. He chuckles and swings me around so my face is below his and our chests are only inches apart.

We're both smiling and our chests heave up and down as we catch our breath. It's a whirlwind of a moment. And then I remember whom I'm with and the fast-paced energy begins to die down.

"What are you doing?" I breathe, suddenly aware of how close he is. I can see every freckle on his face, every scar he's collected as souvenirs over the years.

"It's really cold out here," he whispers into my ear, his warm breath traveling down my neck.

"Yes," I agree, my heart still beating a million miles an hour. He is my friend. Only my friend. Forever my friend.

He tilts his head so his chestnut hair falls just above his eyes, and he blinks those hazel eyes at me.

"I've never kissed a girl before, you know," he says suddenly, his voice taking on the hint of excitement it always does when he's talking about something scientific. But this isn't scientific. This is kissing.

"And I've never kissed a boy," I respond. His lip quirks up into a grin and he takes a step, closing the small distance between us.

"Funny how I've never even seen a girl who way before. Not once."

"Yeah. Funny," I whisper so quietly I doubt he can even hear me.

I can feel every inch of his body, from his toes to his hips to his chest to his collarbone. He's always been a part of me and I've always been a part of him. Yet sweat beads on my forehead and my entire body is shaking.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his loving expression turning to concern.

"I think," I manage to get out, desperately wiping the sweat off my brow. I glance up at him, at his handsome face that holds only concern for me.

"I'll see you at the bonfire," I say, forcing a smile. "We can dance the night away." He nods, looking both relieved and flustered. "I'll come pick you up in the afternoon."

I nod eagerly. "Goodnight Cedar."

His mouth quirks. "You too Cresta. You too."

* * *

The waves dance and splash and fall against the sand. The bright sun has long since fallen behind the curve of the earth and left our sky a bright navy color. I sit perched on a log as the party goes on around me; my hair in a messy ponytail, my hands cupped around a cup of coffee that has long since grown cold.

Orion's Belt shines above me, so close I could almost touch it.

I don't remember the age I was when I began to wish for another world. One day I was happy playing on the beach and letting my parents hide me from the harsh sun that is Panem, and the next I was staring out at the ocean or the sky for hours on end, wanting nothing more than to reach that curve in the earth. I became someone my parents could not protect. I am glad I am in control of myself now, but I hope I have not become someone they never intended me to be. I hope I do not strike fear into their hearts.

Someone runs past me and slams into my back, knocking the cup from my hands.

"Hey watch it!" I growl, spinning around to face the person.

Instead I am staring into the hazel eyes of Cedar Moore.

He's wearing a Christmas sweater most likely from Urchin's place- and for God knows what reason since it's the end of March.

"I came to your house to pick you up today and you weren't there," he says, offering me a hand. I take it and he pulls me up and leads me further into the crowd of people dancing around the bonfire.

"I came with my mom," I mutter. "Who is still not speaking to anyone."

Cedar's jaw ticks. "Well she better start soon. The reaping's coming up."

"What if I get picked?" I ask, genuinely curious. I've been doing that a lot lately- wondering about the games.

"You won't," he says quickly, too quickly.

"You don't know that," I shoot back. He turns to me, his eyes grim, but all I can concentrate on are the cheerful reindeer prancing back and forth on his sweater.

"I do know that," he says gruffly. "I just do. You won't be picked. You aren't going to the games." My lips press together into a hard line and there are so many things I could say to Cedar Moore. He doesn't know everything. I have just as large a chance of being picked as any other sixteen-year-old girl out here. But I keep my mouth shut.

"Would you give me the honor of a dance," he asks, leaning backwards and offering me his hand once again. My lips turn up into a sharp smile despite the annoyance I feel.

"Why of course." I wrap my arms carefully around his neck and his come to rest lightly on the curve of my hips.

We push our way into the crowd, our hearts vibrating with the constant pounding of the music.

"Having fun?" Cedar mouths.

"Not really," I mouth back. He chuckles against me, his chest heaving with every breath.

He leans down so his lips are by my ear. "The ocean is beautiful tonight." I glance out at the waves as they wash away the fresh sand. They are beautiful, just as they are every night. They are beautiful and strong and free.

I lean my head down against Cedar's chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"And don't worry about your mom and dad," he mutters to me. "They've been through a lot. They'll come back to you."

I hope to God that he is right. I can't go on living with two people lost in their past. I may be independent, I may be in control of my life, but that doesn't mean I don't need them. I do.

"Thank you Cedar," I say finally, inhaling the smell of cotton. He has always had an interesting scent and the only word I can find to put on it is the sky. He smells like sunlight and wind. He smells like the sky.

"I can't take you seriously with that sweater," I say finally, lifting my head and laughing.

His lip twitches. "I can get you one," he says.

"Sure," I chuckle, pushing back his hair. "Then we can match."

I always assumed Cedar and I would grow old together. I always had this image in my head that we wouldn't marry. We would live in conjoined houses on the beach and talk about our lives and our jobs. He was going to be a fisherman and I was going to become mayor. I never thought our lives could lead to anything other than the picture I had created in my head. Now, standing on the beach, dancing to music that the Capitol has created simply to take everyone's mind off an uprising, I begin to wonder. Could Cedar and I grow old and never have to worry about anything in our way? Is my image what our lives are going to be? So much could go wrong. I wonder, I do. I wonder.

* * *

My father once told me that I'm always angry. He said that I'm like my mother that way. I hold hate in my heart for the people who are trying to destroy those of us that are good inside. But I stand here with my toes in the sand, my speckled hair blowing like a kite in the wind, staring at the two tombstones with the pink flowers and the ivy leaves, and I don't feel anger. The flowered one reads, "Haley Domhill, age 16. Forever remembered." And the other bears the words, "Tray Kimberly, age 17. The first tribute." The two simple memorials only strike confusion inside of me. Common sense tells me that Tray Kimberly died, but I don't know how and I don't know why it means so much to my mother. Haley Domhill is a little harder to figure.

I bend down, touching the carvings in the stone lightly. Then at the bottom I trace, "what's your story?" I sit back on my heels; half hoping for a response from my mother's deceased loved ones.

"What are you doing out here?" a soft voice asks from behind me. I turn around quickly, falling into the sand, and blink my eyes at my mother.

She's wearing the green dress and her light brown hair is wrapped up in a messy bun on the top of her head.

"Thinking," I say automatically. She slowly closes the distance between us and sits down next to me, her eyes skimming across the tombstones.

"Your father put these here for me," she says after a minute, brushing one painted finger over Tray's name.

I glance at her, biting my lip, trying to decide if it's smart to open my mouth.

"Dad says I'm angry, like you are," I say, my voice cracking.

"I am very angry," she murmurs. "Sometimes I just hate who they are and what they stand for."

"The Capitol?" I ask.

She nods, her fingers still hovering over the small graves.

"The reaping's tomorrow," she says simply. Her voice holds no emotion. She is simply stating a fact.

"I know," I say. "Mom, what if I get picked?"

"You won't," she says quickly.

Sometimes I hate my ability to read someone's expression. If I were unable to tell that she is not lying, I could hold in my heart the belief that I am exactly like anyone else. But she is not lying, and that means that she is hiding something else.

"Why not?" I ask quietly, looking up at her.

Her fingers pick furiously at a patch of grass sticking up through the sand and I can see her teeth gnawing at the skin of her cheek, but she doesn't look at me.

"Tray gave me my first kiss," she says suddenly, her eyes looking somewhere far away.

I blink at her, surprised. That is the most information my mother has ever revealed about her past, and I'm not willing to let her close up to me quite yet. I must tread carefully.

"And Haley?" I whisper, yet my voice still echos across the quiet beach.

"I let her down," Sea says, her voice cracking just as mine did. Her fists clench and unclench by her sides and I know she is trying to stay here in the moment instead of fading into the past.

"I didn't protect her and she died."

"I'm sorry mom," I say, reaching out a tentative hand and laying it gently on her shoulder. She jerks back at first but then settles down under my touch.

We are very similar- Sea Farley and I. From the shade of our skin to the number of freckles dotting our cheeks, we are identical. The difference is that my mother's face has the bare trace of scars left from her time in the games and mine is fresh- unmarked by the wrath of the Capitol.

"Mom," I say, too curious and angry and exasperated to wait any longer. "Why won't I be picked tomorrow? How are you so sure?" Her head snaps towards me, her bottom lip quivering.

"Because Shay," she says grimly, and there is no remorse in her ice colored eyes. She is finally going to tell me something. The excitement that fills the pit of my stomach is surprising and unquenchable. "Your name isn't in the bowl. It never has been. Not once."


	5. Humans Are As Humans Do

My name is not in the bowl because of what my mother said to the Capitol 25 years ago. I don't know what she said or why she said it. All I know is the President wants nothing to do with the Farley-Crestas. Other than my parents being mentors, we are to go under the radar. They don't want me in their games.

The fact that I'm still not sure why makes me want to stab something.

Instead I stand in front of the mirror and slowly braid my wet hair until it is hanging over my shoulder, leaving behind a small circle of water on the side of my dress. My dress is long and baby blue and strapless. I look more like I'm supposed to be going to a ball than to a reaping. Orders of the president, my mother said. I am the daughter of a victor and I had better dress like one. It feels as if I am just flaunting my wealth, throwing it in the faces of those who are not as fortunate. At least I did not have to buy the dress new and drag it through the square for everyone to see. It was my great-grandmother, Aubrey Treehart's.

"You look beautiful."

I glance in the mirror at my father, who is fidgeting uncomfortably in a black-and-white suit.

"Excited?" I ask, aware of the morbidity in my question.

"You are like your mother," is all he says, flicking his bow tie out of the way. "Rebellious. Risky."

I touch the tube of lipstick to my lip, watching as it begins to stain them a deep red.

"I don't know why it's risky," I point out. "You won't tell me."

Red steps into the room, knocking his head against the door jamb. I resist the urge to laugh at such a typical action of my father.

"Shay, you have to understand that we can't. It's for your safety, as well as ours, and even Panem's."

I scowl at him in the mirror, but it's hard to stay mad when he's blinking those humorous brown eyes.

"Help me with this annoying...thing, will you?" he asks, making a face down at his bow tie. I turn away from the mirror and straighten it for him, so the edge is no longer tickling his chin.

"There," I say, letting myself smile just a bit.

"Ah, much better. It would have bothered me the entire time."

I shake my head at him, amused. Only Red Cresta would sit through an entire reaping without figuring out how to straighten a tie on his own.

"Is your little friend going to be there?" he asks as I turn back to the mirror. "What's her name? Poppy?"

Poppy is a little 10-year-old girl who shares my ability to tell is someone is lying. I was there for her birth and have been there ever since. I read to her every Saturday when her mom is working. She has a big collection of books she's found over the years, and although some pages are missing, she cherishes them more than anything else.

"No, she's too young," I respond, choking back the emotions inside of me. A little girl named Poppy will be forced to enter the reaping in two years, but I, a sixteen-year-old who sometimes wishes she could go to the games, isn't even entered. It's not right.

"Okay," he says, turning around and once again knocking his head into the top of the frame. "We need to get your door fixed. It's too short," he grumbles, eyeing it warily. I chuckle and follow him out of the house. My mother waits on the sidewalk, her eyes hard and shielded.

"You'll be staying with Jersey while we're gone," she says to me as I step outside. She looks beautiful in a long-sleeved lilac dress. It is the color of the sky at dawn. "I know," I assure her. "Just like every year." She nods, looking distracted.

"Come on," Red says, taking his wife by the hand. "Let's go."

* * *

The square is already full when we arrive. I see all the children with soot on their faces and calluses covering their bare feet. My parents continue to the stage, only pausing once to glance back at me.

Three weeks and they'll be back, I assure myself. Then I'll get answers. The games will be over and everyone will relax a little. They'll tell me everything. They'll have to.

"This way," a peacekeeper barks, herding me into the square sectioned off for sixteen-year-old females. A few of the other girls stare at me blankly. One narrows her eyes into a reproachful glare. Every single one of them knows who I am, and I bet they know I won't be picked today.

But I could volunteer. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I could raise my hand and shout the words and no one would tell me I couldn't. If they did that, they'd be revealed. The problem is, I'd be volunteering to prove them wrong. For my own selfish reasons, I would give my life. Not to save another life or to prove that I am kinder than most people believe. I would do it because I'm angry. And that's the worst reason of them all.

"Welcome," our mayor says, his voice booming out of the speakers. "The time has come again to reap two brave young souls for the 26th Annual Hunger Games." I grab the hem of my dress and hold on tight. The justice building stands tall, looming over me. The escort, Clemencia, a beautiful woman with soft chocolate skin, hops up to the podium, pulling on the sleeves of her one-size-too-small snake-skin suit.

"As always. Females first," she chirps, wiggling her perfect nails at us. And then she's sticking her hand into the bowl of names and everyone around me is as still as a statue and my lips want to form the worse "I volunteer." The piece of paper she picks is folded neatly and I can just see the ink printed carefully on the inside.

"Brett Donohue," Clemencia calls across the square. The girls on either side of me part to reveal a tall girl with long dark hair tied up in a ponytail and a scar running across one of her silver eyes. Her lips press together into a hard line and she begins to walk towards the stage. I could save Brett Donohue's life, but I shouldn't. Not if it's because I want to throw something in my parent's faces.

Brett holds the railing as she climbs the steps, knowing each one takes her closer to her demise. She steps up to the microphone and it's my last chance. I imagine the relief in her eyes, the surprise in everyone else's.

And then it's over. Clemencia is wobbling over to the boy's bowl and Brett's eyes have hardened as she composed herself and it's too late.

I continue to watch her as Clemencia digs her hand into the boy's pull and plucks out a slip from the dead center. I want to see a chance in Brett's expression. I am waiting to see the pain or the shock. Anything to show that she is human. I can't bear the thought of us all being robots, unable to cry even after they have handed us our death on a silver platter.

Doesn't Brett Donohue want to scream in rage and throw her fists into the air? That's what it means to be human, after all. To fight for the ones that are good and refuse the others when they try to extinguish your light.

"Cedar Moore," Clemencia says, clearing her throat after as if she hasn't said the one thing that has the power to ruin me. My head turns, ever so slowly, until I am looking straight at the boy with the hazel eyes standing as still as a statue. "No," I whisper. If I had volunteered it would have been him and I. Cedar Moore and Shay Cresta, the tributes from District four.

But I didn't. So it's just my best friend standing on that stage, his hair pushed back by the wind, staring back at me.

I assumed we were going to grow old together. I wished. I wondered. I hoped. And now all I can do is stare. I should be fighting for him, but I'm not. I'm just staring.

I should be fighting.

It's not so easy being human, is it?

* * *

One time, when I was little, It was my mother's and Jersey's turn to mentor the games, and I stayed with my father. It was a fun two weeks, but I felt uncomfortable the entire time. He was always biting his nails and glancing at the television and I wasn't sure why. I would wander outside in the cold and imagine that my mom was simply on vacation and would be back to play with me soon. Still, it was never quite reassuring enough and I eagerly awaited when I would get to see her at the train station.

That is how I feel now. I don't belong in this skin. I am restless, too eager for the time when I will see his face. I need to escape and take him somewhere safe. But I can't do that, especially since I am Shay Farley Cresta. Up until today I thought that name was powerful. Now it only restrains me.

The peacekeeper leads me to Cedar's door in the Justice Building, and I am fidgeting all the while, unable to calm my mind.

"You've got five minutes," the man grumbles, turning the key so the door creaks open. I slide in quickly, pushing it closed behind me, and find him with my eyes. His hands drum against the windowpane, his cheeks unmarked by the tears I know are straining to fall.

"You should be crying," I say flatly. I want to say something more, I need to say something more, but I don't know what there is to say. "Or screaming. Or hitting things."

He stands up slowly, stretching his back, looking me up and down carefully as if he's searching for something in particular. And then he must decide he doesn't care what it is because he crosses the distance between us in three easy strides and suddenly I am in his arms. I hold him close, squeezing my eyes shut as his rattled breaths drum against my ribs. I can't be much for him, but I can be there. I can hold him and let him know there is someone rooting for him.

"I'll take care of your family. I will. And my parents, they'll get you out, Cedar. You have to believe they will."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine.

"You," he breathes. "Shay Farley Cresta. You are the kindest person Panem has ever seen. The world is brighter with you in it. I'm sorry I can't share that light with heaven. It will be dark there without you." I am not kind. I am not bright. But if Cedar believes so, of course I will let him. Especially now, when I have no right to tell him what the difference between right and wrong is. I don't even know it myself. No one does. I've just been told that he won't like heaven because I'm not there. I have no right to say much of anything.

My body doesn't have time to register the shock I feel from his acceptance of death before he's holding my face between his hands and pressing his lips to mine. I can tell he tries to kiss me gently, to hold me at a distance, but in a matter of seconds it becomes too much to bear. My chest arches against him and he's backing me up into a wall, pressing the small of my back lightly to the bamboo.

Cedar's hands tangle in my hair as his kisses become deeper. Heat radiates from us like the sun in the middle of summer.

It's my first kiss, and it is with tears streaming down my face because it screams of being my last.

The door opens and another girl walks in, one with olive skin and frizzy black hair. Cedar's grip on me tightens and his kisses grow more passionate, more desperate.

"Uh excuse me," the girl says, as if we are not in the middle of something. "Cedar, I came to say goodbye." Cedar breaks away with a sigh and glances at the girl.

"Can you not see I'm busy?" he asks. Without waiting for a response, he turns back to me and cups my face in his callused hands. The girl mumbles something and exits back through the door.

"You can't leave me now," I whisper against his lips. "Not after this."

He presses his lips to my forehead lightly.

"I have no choice," he whispers.

Tears are rolling down my cheeks now, although he should be the one crying. I can't help it.

"Take this," I whisper, pulling out the small scrap of wood I carry everywhere. On it are my initials, S.F.C. and his, C.E.M. We carved them there when we were twelve, before our first reaping.

He takes it from my hand and gasps silently in suprise when he sees what it is.

"You still have this?" he asks quietly.

"Of course," I respond.

His hands wrap once more around my waist and he pulls me against him so I can feel his heartbeating. For how long will it continue, steady and paced?

"You are special, Shay. And I'm going to try. You remember that. I have a 1 in 24 chance of winning."

I nod, muffling the sob building up in my throat.

"And you," I gulp. "You don't let them take your light away, you hear me? You don't belong to them, Cedar. You belong to yourself."

He kisses me once more, a quick brush of our lips, and then his hands are breaking away from my hips and only a small tingling sensation is left behind.

"I belong to myself," he repeats. I nod, smiling at him through my tears, and then my hand is closing around the handle and the door is slamming shut behind me. I stare at the wood, the Cedar for which he was named. "Yourself," I whisper, pressing my hand to the door. I try to imagine that on the other side he is doing the same and we are only seperated by a measly slab of wood.

Five seconds, I think to myself. That's how long I have.

One. Cedar Moore kissed me. Two. I liked it. Three. Do I love him? Four. He's going to die. Five. I break my hand away from the door and run out of the Justice building as fast as I can. I'm watching the games this year, for the first time. I will find out why we are put through this torture, and I will avenge Cedar. There has to be some way to show Panem that the Capitol is wrong.

They say they're just games, after all, so it's my turn to play.


	6. The Eye of the Beholder

_**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews and the favorites! It means so much! Please keep reviewing and I hope you enjoy this chapter of Ocean Blue. Also, watch out for the switch in point of view :)**_

**Shay's POV:

It takes me precisely one minute and twenty-six seconds to run from the Justice building to the train. I grab Sea's arm, jerking her around so I can look straight into her pale blue eyes.

""He's smart," I blurt. All the information I know about Cedar comes rushing out of my mouth like one big waterfall. "He likes science. He hates fantasy. If you can keep him safe, he can manage wounds, directions, anything really." She puts a hand out to stop me.

"Shay," my mother warns, pushing back her mop of sweaty brown hair.

I know I should take her warning to heart, but something stops me.

"I'm watching the games this year," I say coldly.

Sea's face drops like I suspect it would have if I'd volunteered.

Ever since I turned thirteen, I've wondered about the world. I started to pick out the lies in what people were telling me, and I stored them in their own little container within my head to use later. I became a storage machine. Nothing gets by me anymore, except my mother's expression. She is so focused on the future, so enveloped in the routine of her life that she won't let the past seep in. It will, though. That is inevitable. The past shapes the present, which shapes the future.

My toes curl around the cement stair as Sea thinks over my proposal. My legs feel heavy from sleep, although I have been up for over half the day.

Red pokes his head out of the train door, the wind from the engine blowing his hair every which way.

"Five minutes," he calls to my mother. She doesn't acknowledge him.

"You aren't watching," she says finally, her voice hard. She sounds as if she has made up her mind once and for all but she must know I'm not going to make it that easy.

"You can keep your past behind you," I hiss. "But you can't keep the future from me."

I can tell from the way her grasp on the railing loosens that she has lost her fleeting sense of resolution.

"Fine." Her skin grows paler and I know I am forcing her to make a difficult decision. How can she say no? The only way to keep me under her control is to take me with her and Sea Farley wants me as far away from the Capitol as possible.

"Brace yourself, Shay," is all she says before climbing onto the train. I stand limply on the curb, unable to move a muscle. I want to scream, say thank you, and make her promise to protect him. Instead I stand quietly, my entire body seemingly in hibernation.

I've always been frustrated with Sea because she tries to fit me inside a box that is too small. I have been sheltered and kept safe. I have been innocent, and suddenly, when I pushed hard enough, she is letting me out of the box and into the wind. I am free to make my own choices. Even if those choices are wrong, or unsafe, or cruel. I am free to make them.

My mother pokes her head out of the train once more, her thin lips pressed together so hard they almost don't exist.

"I'm going to try," she calls over the roaring of the wind as the train begins to pull away. She doesn't need to say more. I know that she means she'll try to save Cedar.

A promise to try is not much. It says that one will try to succeed but if they fail, oh well. I would much rather have a promise of sure success. But I am not stupid. I know that kind of promise is impossible in the games. So a promise to try is much better than no promise at all.

* * *

**Cedar's POV:

I shouldn't have kissed her. That was evident the minute she shut the door. I am leaving, I am going to die, I am never going to see her again.

"Cupcake?" Red asks me quietly, leaning over the small distance between us in the main compartment of the train.

I stare at the perfect cream cheese frosting and the candy star on top for a moment before deciding it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

"No thanks," I reply blandly. He shrugs, although his eyes say he understands. He would of course. He's a victor.

"What year were you?" I ask him, suddenly curious. I know Sea was the first victor, and Jersey Odair the second.

His eyes flit toward me quickly.

"Third," he says. I have no reason to believe he is lying, but his hand is clutching the armrest too hard, like he's holding something back. I decide it's none of my business.

"The games are different every year," Sea says loudly, stalking into the car. Brett is right behind her. Brett's hair is in a high ponytail, the end almost touching her waist. Her nose scrunches up when she walks in like she smells something bad.

"You're both sixteen, correct?" Red asks, leaning forward. He's different now, with Shay out of the picture. His eyes seem a little more free, his posture composed but loose. This is only a guess, but I would say it is because he doesn't have to worry about keeping her safe for a little while.

Brett and I nod in unison.

"My guess is you'll come across some twelve-year-olds," Sea cuts in. "And eighteen. Most years there's a solid range."

I look at my mentors, trying to see them as Shay's parents, but I can't. Not in this context, where they're only thought is on how to keep me alive. They are simply strategists for my survival.

"We need to train," Brett cuts in, slipping some black-rimmed glasses from the front pocket of her dress. "Or we won't have a chance."

If I'm not mistaken, Sea looks slightly annoyed at her comment.

"Of course. You'll train at the Capitol."

Brett nods, but still looks impatient. "But we can start now. We need ideas, tips."

Red stands up quickly, running a hand down his suit. He doesn't look flustered, like his wife, but calm.

"Don't get your panties in a jumble," he says coolly, cracking a smile at Brett. "We're going to train you up. You're going to be ready. We wouldn't have it any other way." With that, he takes Sea by the arm and leads her towards the compartment door.

"Get some food. Get some sleep. Take some time to yourselves. You've just been picked for the Hunger Games, and I can tell by your faces that it hasn't sunk in for either of you. It needs to, if you're going to have a chance." The automatic door slides shut behind them, sealing with a faint sizzling sound. We sit in silence for a few moments before Brett speaks.

"My panties are not in a jumble."

* * *

**Shay's POV:

The warmth from the heater reminds me of the bright District 4 sun at the height of summer. It leaves a tingling sensation behind, one that feels as if my entire body is glowing.

"I'm sorry about Cedar," Jersey says lightly, turning away from his bag of cheez-its. They were a popular snack when this place was known as North America. Now next to nobody eats them. Except Jersey.

"I don't want to talk about it," I say harshly. "Just turn on the TV." He picks up the sleek silver remote on the kitchen counter and points it into the next room, lighting up the screen. Nothing is happening yet, of course not, for all the tributes are still on the train. I lean against the door frame, my cheeks burning red. Whether anger or embarrassment is the cause, I'm not sure.

"Did you love my mom?" I ask quietly. It is a question I have meant to ask for many years, but never had the guts to.

He blinks at me twice, his lips turned down in surprise.

"I think so," he says finally. "A long time ago." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask him to.

I scuff the polished floor with my boot for a minute before speaking again.

"Did you ever kiss her?"

Jersey practically spits out his handful of crackers and stands up quickly. It's his turn to burn red.

"No," he says, avoiding my eyes. I don't miss a beat.

"You're lying."

"Fine," he spits, but I know he isn't truly mad. "I did."

For some odd reason, the thought makes me happy. Maybe it's because I know more about my mother's past than I have my entire life. Maybe it's because I know Jersey Odair had a life before this boring house in the far-east side of the district.

I am about to open my mouth and say more to this man that has a hidden past- same as my parents, when the TV screen blinks to a shot of District 1, and I know the recap of the reaping is on. My heart leaps in excitement and fear. I said I have never seen the games before, and it's true.

I've also never seen another reaping, or heard the newly appointed President Snow talk, or seen the tall buildings of the Capitol. I have never seen outside of District four, and now I am able to, if only through a television.

"Sea's really okay with this?" Jersey asks, his voice careful. I nod, waving him off, and take a seat on the edge of the couch; ready to jump up if anything is to happen.

"Welcome," a gruff voice calls and a man with blonde hair takes the stage. He is standing in a balcony, his face tinted orange with concealer, his narrow snake eyes fully displaying his disgust. Disgust for what, I'm not sure.

"That's Snow," Jersey says, taking a seat next to me. I lean on his shoulder. I don't know much about the games, but I do know I'll need Jersey there if I am to watch them.

The president begins talking, and then the camera cuts back to the districts. The escort for District 1 steps up, clad in a pink suit and heels. "Jasmine Revelin," she calls, and a girl with a blonde bob comes up, her mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles. She waves at the crowd and there is uproar of applause, as if they are proud. I frown, confused. "Jersey..." I begin.

He sighs. "District 1's tributes are careers," he starts, and soon I am leaning back into him, my eyes trained on the screen, my ears absorbing the information Jersey feeds me as if they can't get enough. Maybe they can't, after all this time. Maybe, they never will.


	7. In The Face of Death

_**A/N: Thank you all for the follows and favorites! Remember, reviews are highly appreciated! Thank you! (Also watch out for point of view switches!)**_

Sea's POV:

My hands shake as Red slowly slides my dress over my head so I am left only in my undergarments. He grabs a washcloth from the bathroom and runs it over my shoulders.

"You're okay," he mutters softly. The boy from the main car is gone, replaced by a far gentler one.

"Our daughter's best friend, the one person she trusts, is our tribute," I say, looking up at him. My insides are churning, bubbling, and I know anger from before, from all those years ago, is screaming to be released. But I can't let it. I promised my family and myself that it would never appear again. The truth gets released, and our lives are over. Dust.

"We treat him like we would any other boy," Red says calmly, pressing the damp washcloth to my forehead.

I nod, holding onto his words. It's the only thing to do, after all. If I begin to act as if I knew Cedar before, as if he is special to me in some way, it will become hazardous to both of us.

"And you," I say, chuckling suddenly. "You had to say you won the third games? You couldn't come up with anything better than pretending District four had three victors in a row?" He shrugs, laughing along with me.

"I had nothing better." He pulls me up, slipping a dark green shirt over my head and pulling my hair out of its bun so it spills around my shoulders like a soft blanket.

He looks at me with those eyes full of passion- like I am the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on. It makes me shutter with a bittersweet kind of joy. He takes my hand between both of his and leads me to the soft bed.

"Sleep, Sea. I'll wake you up in an hour and we can go back out there." I nod, realizing for the first time how exhausted I am. I settle into the covers, sighing, and he gets in behind me, making a perfect cocoon for my body to fit in. I am small, almost smaller than Shay, who is growing to be a healthy size, and Red envelops me easily.

And then he says the exact words I spoke to my daughter because I left her on that train station, frozen with her own disbelief.

"Brace yourself, Farley." And so I do.

* * *

Cedar's POV:

Shay manages to occupy most of my thoughts for the entire god-forsaken train ride. It doesn't help that her parents are in the same vehicle as me, and her mom could be her identical twin. I pace around my room, running my callused fingers across the silken bed sheets. The bathroom is filled with an assortment of soaps that range from Rosemary scented to 'fresh laundry.' I stare at the shelves with disbelief. My family has to trade clams for a bar of unscented soap, and here you can smell like anything you damn well want. I turn away, scowling, and splash some ice-cold water from the sink on my face. Red's right, it hasn't sunk in yet.

"I am going to die," I say out loud. "I am going to fight to the death." Still, my heartbeat remains normal and my expression in the mirror doesn't change. I was so busy worrying about Shay's safety that I didn't even take a second to consider the fact that my name was written on thirty-nine slips of perfectly rectangular paper.

What a fool I was. I could have prepared myself, calculated the odds.

A knock on the door breaks me out of my thoughts. It's the past, after all. And I've learned from the very people who are my mentors that the past has no place in the present.

"Dinner," Sea calls from outside. I stand up, brushing off my reaping clothes, and head back out into the hall. Brett comes out of the room across from me, her glasses askew and her scar shining in the dim light of the corridor.

She's holding a book in one hand; it's cover so old and worn that I can't make out the title.

"Are you...reading?" I ask, surprised. It seems like such an odd thing to do two hours after being picked for the Hunger Games.

"Indeed, I am," she says, a hint of suspicion in her voice. "I like to read."

"What are you learning about?" I ask, still trying to make out the title. She draws the book closer.

"Nothing. It's a fantasy novel."

Without meaning to, I make a face of disgust.

She snorts, starting down the hall. "I didn't ask for your opinion," she calls back to me. I start after her, shaking my head. None of the things said in that book will ever become reality, so why fill your head with impossible ideas? It's absurd, I think. But I'm not one to tell people what they can and can't do.

I turn the corner and slide into the seat opposite Red. He's already filling his plate full of cooked carrots and a cheesy pasta dish. I have never seen a table of food like this. Ever.

Brett drops her book where she's standing and practically runs into the food. She scoops up a handful of sweet potatoes straight from the dish and stuffs it into her mouth. Clemencia, who I hadn't noticed was there until now, makes a small sound of disgust in the back of her throat but doesn't speak up.

"Hungry?" Red asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Brett doesn't even take a second to respond before seating herself and piling more foot onto her plate.

"So," Sea says, clearing her throat. Her hair is done up in a tight bun and her face shines with freckles. "I thought we could talk while we eat." Brett nods without looking up.

"The first order of business," she begins, tapping her fingers against the hard wood. "Is the tribute parade. You'll be delivered to your stylists and I'd advise that you let them do whatever they are planning to do."

"Or they'll claw your eyes out," Red offers. He waves his fingers at us and gives a little 'rawr.' Sea shoots him a look.

"They like to create their own style, that's all," she says.

"They're blonde, they're bossy, and they're bouncy," Red says, nodding his head innocently.

"Red," his wife warns.

"Okay, fine. Not all of them are blonde," he amends.

I can't help it: I smile. Sea glares at me, her blue eyes shining with annoyance.

"Do not egg him on," she warns me. I nod in understanding.

"Sorry Ma'am."

That's the last straw for Red. He almost falls out of his chair he's laughing so hard.

"Ma'am. Sea, darling, he called you ma'am." She sighs and bangs her head against the table, groaning.

"This is going to go no where," she grumbles. "Red, go to your room." That stops the laughter quite quickly.

"What?" he asks, standing up and pushing back his crown of blonde hair.

"Go to your room. You're in a time out." He stares at her for a second, but she's obviously not kidding, so he picks up his plate and begins to exit the room.

"Toodeloo," he calls back. "Don't worry, Sea doesn't bite." He pauses. "Often." Sea grabs a bread roll off the table and chucks it at him. He sprints out of the dining car, his laughter echoing down the hallways. As odd as it is to see this side of Red, it is a nice distraction from the matter at hand.

"Okay," Sea says with a deep breath, turning back to us. "Now, I need to know something. Are you two planning to be allies? It's up to you. I don't have an opinion on this one." Her eyes flash with something, hatred? Sorrow? But it passes quickly and I have no way of knowing.

Brett finally looks up from her plate and swallows her last bite.

"Allies?" she echoes.

Sea nods, her hands clasped tightly.

"No," we both say at once.

Her hands relax as if that's the answer she wanted.

"Okay. So we will train you two separately. The basics will be together, but your personal strategies will be apart from one another. Brett, I will be with you. And the idiot that's in the time out will train you, Cedar." She glances at me and mouths 'sorry.' I shrug, smiling. They may quarrel with one another, but I can see the love between Red and Sea. I can see the unspoken promise to protect one another.

"You can go," Sea says, smiling faintly at both of us. "Finish your meal. Get some sleep. We'll enter the Capitol in a few hours." Brett and I stand up, taking our plates with us. I lead us down the hall until we reach our rooms.

"Goodnight," I say out of habit. Brett turns her good eye to me.

"Listen," she says. "We can be district partners. That doesn't bother me. But I intend to get out of that arena, or die trying. So we will never be friends. Understand?"

"Very clearly," I say sharply. "Go read your book Brett Donohue." She doesn't respond, but I hear the door slam behind her.

Brett's annoying, obviously, but she's got a point. She is already preparing to win these games; whereas I haven't thought past this train ride.

I don't want to. Hell, I don't really care.

So I can't help wondering, if Brett is preparing to live, does that mean I am preparing to die?

* * *

Shay's POV:

I never was fond of horror stories. I hate the suspense and the eerie silence that accompanies them. I shiver at the thought of blood. Yet here I am, standing in the midst of one.

"Jersey," I whisper, clutching the hem of my coat with stiff fingers.

"You wanted to come Shay," he says quietly. "You lead the way." Crumbling houses stand on either side of me, the paint on their shutters peeling off. The cement that I stand on is filled with cracks. I pull up my scarf to cover my nose in an attempt to mask the strong stench of rotten eggs and cat urine. Somewhere, a crow squawks. My boots crunch against the loose pavement as I begin to move forward, my legs shaking so much I wonder how I'm still supporting myself.

Wary eyes peer out from the holes in the shacks, following my every step. A young girl scurries along my path, her feet so callused she doesn't even notice the sharp bits of gravel that are scattered across the ground. A hand reaches for me; it's gnarly fingernails ready to dig into my skin. I shrink away, a small hiss escaping my lips.

"Where are we again?" I ask, almost too quietly for Jersey to hear. He leans in, his breath fluttering the hair on the back of my neck.

"The Aisle," he says. "Welcome to the poorest neighborhood in District 4."

There's a tug on my sleeve and I look down with a sharp intake of breath. A young boy stands there, his dark hair pushed back with dirt and sweat.

"Hello," I say lightly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I am unreasonably nervous.

"They're not going to hurt you," Jersey mutters. "You're not from the Capitol."

I don't say so, but in a sense, I am like the people from the Capitol. I've heard that the citizens there are all naïve and live for the games. Isn't that what I've been doing lately? My heart flutters at the mention of the tributes. My head buzzes with excitement and curiosity when the T.V. turns on. I am one of them; I just happen to live in the Districts.

"What's your name?" I ask the little boy, squatting down so I can look him in the eye. He grabs my sleeve again and pulls me towards the side of the road.

"What is it?" I ask, scanning the house behind him. He just shakes his head. He pulls again, his dirty fingernails ripping through my coat.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," I say, stumbling to my feet and following him through the door that has fallen off it's hinges long ago. He leads me into a dark kitchen and the smell of old meat hits me like a gust of wind. I stumble backwards, gagging,

"Where are you taking me?" I whisper, but again he doesn't make a sound. Then he's tugging on my sleeve again and I'm squinting into the darkness until I make out the shape of a young woman, presumably the kid's mom.

"Let me help you," I say, taking her frail hand in mine and hoisting her to her feet. She is obviously starving. That is clear from the moment I pick her up without any difficulty. Her eyes flutter and I catch a glimpse of a dark green iris.

This could be me, if I had been born into another family. I would have lived on the edge of starvation. I would have known how to fend for myself. And I would have been smart. Not school smart, anyone can be school smart. I would have known about the games, and the reaping, and I would have had to sneak food and medicine and work to keep my family alive. If only I hadn't been stamped with a title of 'The Victor's Daughter.'

I make it outside with the woman and set her down unceremoniously on the pavement. She lets out a huff of breath and scrambles to her knees.

"You're Shay Farley Cresta," she says, her eyes dancing with an odd kind of knowing.

"I am," I say, slightly surprised. It doesn't bother me when the people in town know my name and my story, but these people out here, well they shouldn't know me at all. A story is meant for a few people who will understand the true meaning behind it. _My_ story seems to be known by the entire world.

"Oh, my darling," the woman coos, and her voice is soft and beautiful. Strangely, it reminds me of a waterfall. "You should not be here. It isn't safe."

"I can take care of myself," I say lightly, smiling down at her face. It would be beautiful if it were not for the thousands of tiny scars covering her flesh. She's got a thick mop of black hair and those stunning green eyes. They are like the tops of evergreen trees in the winter.

"You're quite clueless, aren't you?" the woman asks.

"Not my fault," I mutter. "My parents won't tell me anything."

"Ah," the woman nods. "Sea Farley and Red Cresta. Wonderful people. Scarred people."

I pull out the small loaf of bread that sits in my pocket and hand it to her. "Here Eat." She takes it gratefully and stuffs some into her mouth, before handing the rest to the little boy.

"You must go Shay Farley Cresta," she says. "Watch the games if you wish. Learn about Panem. But know, that if you want the truth, you must be _sure_ that you want it." I frown at her. Of course I'm sure. I've been sure my entire life.

"The past has a way of coming back to haunt you," she says, her eyes careful.

"Thank you," I say quickly, standing up and taking the rest of the food out of my pocket. "Ration this however you must. It's for you."

The woman nods, her lips pursed in awe. The little boy scrambles forward but she holds him back with one arm.

"Thank you Shay," she calls back to me as I take Jersey's arm and begin to rush away from the crumbling city. "Don't ever think you are like them." I continue walking at a brisk pace, my heart beating hard in my chest.

"You have kindness in your heart," she calls. "You will never be one of them."

I can only pray to the sea that she is right.


	8. Perdere

I have to go back to the Aisle. It isn't just something I want. There's something pulling me, tugging at my heart, telling me to turn around and march right back into the ruined city.

"No," Jersey says, as if reading my mind. "We are going home to our heated houses and we are going to watch the games, because that's what you wanted. Your mother agreed to let you sit in front of the television, not parade around the District trying to find all of its deep dark secrets."

I make a face at him but don't push the subject.

"Be careful, Shay," Jersey continues, biting his lip nervously. "You're too excited for a girl who just let her best friend go to his death." My body stiffens at the word 'death' but once again I don't say anything. We navigate around a pothole in the middle of the dirt road, our breathing the only sound breaking the silence.

"I'm not excited," I say finally. "I'm scared. God, Jersey, do you think I'm not scared?" My voice catches at the end, portraying the underlying anxiety I feel.

The golden-haired boy looks at me calmly, his eyes searching my face.

"Sometimes I forget that you're Shay Cresta," he confesses. I turn to him, my cheeks flushed from the cold and raise my eyebrows in confusion.

"You're so much like your mother. You see the world in puzzle pieces instead of as the entire puzzle. I forget I'm talking to you sometimes, and not Sea."

We reach his steps and he fiddles with the doorknob, his fingertips blue. Heat washes over us like a light blanket and we step inside. The cold seeps off of me and spins out the door and back into the air.

I lean into the kitchen counter and the corner digs into my side. I couldn't care less about the pain right now. It's nothing compared to what those people in the Aisle are feeling.

"I'm not my mother," I insist. "She likes lies."

Jersey is already shaking his head by the time I'm done speaking.

"She doesn't. She hates them. The problem is, she isn't good at detecting them."

The corner digs deeper into my rib cage, almost piercing my porcelain skin.

"I will not be my mother," I whisper, desperation creeping into my voice. I have been alive for sixteen years, and on my birthday, my one resolution has always been the same. I will not be afraid of my past. I will not let it be my undoing.

Jersey unzips his coat and hangs it by the door, revealing a plain white T-shirt that shows off his lean muscle. He comes to stand next to me, although his height makes it hard. He stands at least two feet taller, his neck bent at an unnatural angle so he is able to look me in the eye.

"Sea Farley is the most courageous, brave person I have ever met," he breathes, like hope and longing all at once. He speaks of her like she's a broken promise.

"She's letting me watch the games," I say after a moment, my eyes still hovering over on his. "I am grateful for that. She is letting me know what my home is. But don't you see, Jersey? I want to know everything. I have this chance, this opening, and I'm going to take it."

His eyebrows furrow, and I know this is not an easy conversation. He was reluctant to take me the first time.

"I'm going back to the Aisle," I continue, cold set determination seeping into my voice. "Now."

"Don't you remember what the woman said?" Jersey bursts. He snatches at my wrist but I pull away, finally relieving the pressure in my side as I move from my spot at the counter. "She told you to know if you wanted the whole truth."

If Jersey were smart, he would know there's no changing my mind once it's already made up, but I humor him.

"The truth is worth nothing if it is not whole," I tell him.

I grab my coat, still cold to the touch from my latest venture, and hurry back out the door. There is no sound for a moment, and I begin to think he is letting me go on my own.

And then: "You are a piece of work," he mutters next to my ear. I shiver as his breath travels down my spine, and smile.

"I know you'd come to your senses," I say cheerfully. He flicks my braid.

"The Farley's have a weird ability of persuasion," he grumbles, but with a glance back I can see he's smiling faintly too.

He reaches into his pocket and shuffles around for a moment before pulling out a small wrapped square and handing it to me. For the second time in an hour, I raise my eyebrows, looking to Jersey for help. He chuckles softly.

"It's chocolate," he says. "Never seen it before?"

I shake my head, staring at the golden wrapping in my hand.

"God, I loved chocolate when I was a kid," Jersey reminisces, his eyes glazed over with memory and nostalgia.

Mu fingers, numb with cold, carefully unfold the delicate paper to reveal a perfect square of light brown _chocolate. _

I stare at it for a moment, taking in it's small size and cursive writing carved into the top.

"Eat it," Jersey coaxes. Chocolate is one of the many things I grew up without, and here, holding this small delicacy, I wonder for the first time what else I missed out on. The big things I know, but what about the insignificant things? Have I ever known the small joys of life? Will I ever know them?

In a world that was safer, one that was not plagued with lies and doubt and nervous glances at every turn, would I have been happy? Would I be a stranger to those who lived around, just like everyone else? I can't help wondering if without the games and the war and fame, the name Shay Cresta would be only that. A name.

I place the piece of chocolate in-between my teeth, letting just a hint of bitter sweetness flood through my mouth. My eyelids flutter shut, savoring the taste.

This is something that is not worth missing.

"Ah, I see I have just created a chocoholic," Jersey muses, shaking his head at me.

My teeth come down on the square and it breaks apart easily, sending the syrupy inside down my throat. It is a feeling of pure ecstasy.

"Jersey," I say once I've swallowed the candy and stuck the wrapper in my pocket. "Why didn't you marry my mom?" It wasn't the question I had meant to ask. I was planning to inquire him about his love for cheez-its, but I guess there was something bigger nagging at me.

His face pales, if that's possible, and his jaw tightens. I realize with a start that he doesn't look surprised, he looks hurt. '

"That was a long time ago," is all he says. My heart stutters. I may have just inflicted raw pain on Jersey, and that is the last thing I wanted to do. He is so gentle, so innocent, and it's easy for a wild mind like mine to hurt him.

"Did she break your heart?" I whisper, afraid of his answer.

He glances at me, his long lashes covered with a thin layer of frost.

"No," he replies carefully. "I think it was much the other way around."

And that is the most I get out of Jersey Odair.

My mind is wiped of the subject as soon as we set foot in the Aisle. The first thing I notice is the tire marks in the dirt. They are thick and long, ones that belong to a heavy truck.

"Do people drive through here often?" I mutter to myself.

"No," Jersey responds grimly, his lips pressed into a hard line.

The second thing I notice is that it is deadly silent. I can only hear the sound of the sea breeze coming in from the shore. No eyes peer at me from in-between the mossy boards that make up a shack. There are no crows around, squawking at me to get away. If I hadn't been here three hours earlier I would have thought this place was abandoned.

I feel in my back pocket for the Swiss army knife I carry everywhere and flip open the longest blade. Sunlight glints off of it and reflects on the nearest house. I don't know what I'm guarding myself from, but I feel as if a thousand ants are crawling across my skin.

I'm so tense that when a rough voice calls out I almost just three feet in the air.

"Get away," the woman in the middle of the road rasps. Her graying hair flies out behind her like a whip and her almond skin is thick with dirt. Her lips, cracked and bleeding, part in anger.

My sweaty palm tightens around the blade.

"You can put the knife down," the woman spits. "You can't hurt me." Without thinking, my fingers spring open and it clatters to the hard ground.

"Now leave," the woman snarls. "You don't belong here."

"I was here earlier," I try to explain, pressing my back into Jersey's side. "I talked to a woman with dark green eyes." The death glare on the lady's face grows stronger and she steps aside.

"I know. And look what you've done."

I'm not sure what I expected. But it wasn't this.

My mouth falls open as I see the scene laid out before me. The woman with the green eyes is hanging from the side of a crumbling building, her skin bloated and blue, a rope cutting into the side of her neck. And next to her, is the little boy. But it's the writing that gets me. In bright red letters that drip lazily down the wall it states: _Don't dig deeper._

* * *

Realization comes for everyone. It can come in any form and at any time. Something clicks in everyone's mind and changes them forever.

For me, it comes in the form of a twenty-three-year-old corpse. I stand a few feet from the dangling bodies, trying without success to block out the horrid stench. I've never smelt death before. That is one thing I am grateful to have been sheltered from.

There are people scattered everywhere, their eyes wrinkled and sad. They all stare at me with a masked kind of caution, like I'm something to be afraid of. My frantic eyes skirt across the little boy's vacant face and settle on the writing. It's slowly dripping down the wall.

"Fresh paint?" I ask, my voice so low I wonder if I actually said anything at all.

Jersey reaches out a hand and lightly touches the letters. He brings his stained fingers to his nose and inhales deeply.

"That's not paint," he says grimly. I open my mouth to ask what else it could be, but my question is answered before I can.

"Blood," a little girl calls, stepping out from behind her mother. She can't be more than eight years old, yet her eyes hold wisdom. She's got a loud voice, one of a fighter. "It's blood. From Delilah," she continues, pointing her thin finger at the dead green-eyed woman.

I turn back to the wall of death, my lip trembling with fear.

"Who did this?" I ask blandly, letting the words echo in my ears.

"You need to leave," another man with close-cropped hair growls. "You can't be here, especially now."

"Who did this?" I demand, my hands curling into fists at my sides. The uncontrollable anger I have felt countless times is churning in my stomach, screaming to make a reappearance. But unlike before, this time it is mixed with a numbing sense of dread. I can ask them as many times as I choose who did this, but the answer is right in front of me, staring me down with dark eyes.

"Who did this?" I shriek, dropping to my knees and raking my fingers through my hair. My fingernails dig into my scalp and it stings so I know I've drawn blood.

At this point, maybe I need to feel pain. I've been in this world for sixteen years. I spent most of them in a safe house on a safe beach in a safe part of the District. Now, I am finally experiencing how many of my fellow citizens have grown up on the brink of survival. I deserve to feel pain, sixteen years worth of it.

"Who did this?" I scream one last time, the second word coming out more like a sob.

Jersey's hands are on my back, leading me away, but I won't go. Not until I have the answer I want.

"Peacekeepers," he mumbles in my ear. "Peacekeepers did this. Probably ordered by President Snow." I gulp in a cold breath of air and go limp in his arms. Of course that's the obvious answer, that's who physically killed the woman and the little boy. But they wouldn't be dead if I hadn't come here. The woman told me things. She didn't tell me much, not much at all, but she did tell me to watch the games and learn about Panem. Is it possible that the President doesn't want me to?

But how would he know?

I cannot see any other explanation for this. The words are etched deep into my mind now. _Don't dig deeper. _Words that simple and that menacing can only be meant for me, the one girl in the District that yearns for more knowledge.

The group around the two victims pushes forward, leaving Jersey and me behind. I watch as they all kneel below the wall of death and place their palms against the ground. It's a young woman who begins the song.

"_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where they strung up a man they say murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."_

My body stills at the lyrics. This is no normal song. This is an eerie tune saved for mourning, for revenge, and for despair.

"_Are you, are you, coming to the tree,_

_Where I told you to run so we'd both be free. _

_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."_

"That's not a district 4 song," I choke.

"No," Jersey agrees, and his voice is scared. I've never heard the man who is gold all over, his eyes always calm and his words calculated, speak as if he were not in control, and I don't like it. "That's a district 12 song, but I guess it applies here."

I rip myself from his grip, my hair spilling out of its braid and cascading down my back in long, dirty clumps. These people are right. All I will bring this crumbling city is more destruction. Shay Cresta is a famous name, but I am starting to realize that it may also be a dangerous one.

That is only one revelation I have had today. The other is that Panem is not what I thought it was. Up until a few minutes ago, I was convinced I was only trying to find out the truth about a slightly damaged nation. I know we have The Hunger Games and that they're terrible, but I don't think I understood. The Capitol is willing to obliterate everyone that stands in its path.

I turn away from the Aisle, my breathing labored, and try to tell my feet to run. But when I turn, I do not face an empty street. Poppy, the little girl I read to sometimes, is standing there, her fragile feet that resemble those of a ballerina, pointed in. Dirt lines her scalp and the purple bags under her eyes stand out like ripe plums. Her hair, as orange as leaves in autumn, is done up in two pigtails that barely brush her shoulders.

"Poppy?" I ask, my voice carried towards her by the wind. The little girl opens her mouth as if to answer me, but her lips crumble into dust and fall to the dirt road.

I scream, I can't help it, and rush towards her, my entire body shaking something terrible. As I reach her, she reaches out her porcelain hand and it too falls to dust. I watch in horror as Poppy Ringwald begins to disappear before my eyes, leaving behind only a skeleton.

"No!" I scream, throwing myself at the pile of bones. She crumbles beneath me, her hipbone digging into my side. They killed her, the Capitol did.

Strong hands slip beneath me and hoist me up. When I glance down, the pile of Poppy's bones are gone.

"The Capitol is powerful, Shay," Jersey whispers gently in my ear. His breath smells of chocolate. "With a snap of their fingers, they can eliminate us." I nod, understanding that's he's telling me to listen to them, to stop digging. I can instantly tell when someone is lying to me, so it is in my nature to want the truth. But if keeping my mouth shut and my brain quiet means I save those around me, so be it.

As we walk quickly away from the Aisle, Jersey shouting back that we're sorry, that we won't come back, I turn my face into his shirt.

The song said that the hanging tree would set them free. But I think maybe it's too late. We are beyond freedom. From what I see in front of me, we have been for a long time. As they say in Latin, Perdere. The damage is done.


	9. Stories, Outfits, and Tribute Angst

****Sea's POV:** I wake up in Red's arms. His grip is tight around me and I spare a moment of my time to lightly trace the lean muscle of his bicep. Then, with a smile, I slip out of his tight embrace and quickly change into loose corduroys and a brown T-shirt. I open the door and tiptoe into the hallway, glancing both ways before darting across the expensive carpet and knocking curtly on Cedar's door. It opens quickly and I jump back in surprise. From the look on Cedar's face I can see he feels the same way.

"Sea?" he asks, blinking his tired brown eyes. I've seen those eyes a million times before; at the dinner table, on the beach, in my kitchen. I am not new to these big copper eyes that demand attention.

"Can I talk to you?" I blurt, glancing into the room past him. Clothes are scattered across the carpet and the little bottles of shampoo the Capitol provides are in a pile on his bed. I never took Cedar for a slob, but I may be wrong.

"Sure," he says, moving aside to allow me entry. I step in, gripping the bar on the wall for support. I've wanted to have this conversation since Clemencia called his name at the reaping, but I still don't know what exactly I'm going to say.

I carefully perch myself on the edge of his bead, being careful not to touch anything that might be of importance to him. The old Sea Farley wouldn't have cared what she touched, but a lot has changed since I was sixteen. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can remember the small girl with the wavy brown hair and icy eyes who stuck her jaw out at the Capitol and wasn't afraid of death.

"So what was it you wanted to talk about?" Cedar asks, snapping me out of my nostalgia.

I reach out and tentatively grab his wrist, hoping in the back of my head that he won't mind.

"I don't know if I can get you through these games," I warn. Sometimes honesty comes easily to me, which is why I don't understand why I have such a difficult time talking to my own daughter. She wants the truth more than anything else and yet it's the one thing I can't seem to give her.

Cedar's eyes don't waver from my face. "I know," he says gently. "I've known that since I walked on the stage. It's your job to try, not to succeed."

"I don't know what I'll do if you die," I admit, squeezing his wrist tighter. "How I'll live with myself, how Shay will live with me."

"Shay would understand," he assures me, but I know his words are only for comfort. I know my daughter, and she is not forgiving.

"Do you love her?" I ask suddenly, turning my head so his eyes meet mine.

He detaches his wrist from my grip, looking mildly stunned. I open my mouth hastily to take the question back. If he does love Shay, it's none of my business.

"I don't know," he answers after a minute. He is shaking slightly, maybe from the pressure, or the threat of the games. "Maybe. Maybe not. I haven't had much time to think about it."

I nod, understanding what he means. I felt that way with Jersey for months. But in the end, my answer was no. I didn't love Jersey Odair, at least not in the way that counted.

"I've been thinking about ways to keep you alive," I add. "Tips. Hints. Anything."

"Sea-" he starts, placing a hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off and stand up, wiping non-existent dirt off my pants.

"I've never known my tributes before," I continue, the words rushing out a like a waterfall. "I'm always nice but I never get too close. It hurts me, and it hurts them. But you're different. I've known you your whole life." My chin wobbles and I know I'm about to cry so I speed up my words. "It's like I'm bringing my own son to the games." He's still standing in the middle of the room, staring at me without saying anything.

"This is new territory for me," I sniff. "For the first time, I'm forced to show compassion towards my tribute. I can't not love you because I've loved you since the day Shay brought you home after your first day of Kindergarten."

"The Capitol," Cedar breathes, and I raise an eyebrow at him. Only, he's not focused on me anymore. I wonder if he even heard what I said.

He rushes over to the window and peers outside, his lips parting in awe as he stares at the golden buildings that seem to be racing toward us at a thousand miles per hour.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" I murmur, joining him. I see this city every year, sometimes more than once, and it still astounds me every time. With its glass structures and people who look like exotic birds, it never ceases to amaze me. If only the Capitol's core were not so corrupt, I could learn to love it here.

"We have to go," I mutter, pulling the tall boy away from the window. "Your stylist will be waiting." He nods, looking nervous, and pulls on a sweater with the Capitol logo printed on the side.

"Take that off," I demand, pointing at the garment. "Now."

He does as I says but turns a confused gaze on me.

"I can't do much to save you, Cedar," I say. "But I can tell you that if you want to survive in that arena, you will remember that you are Cedar Moore. You are not a pawn of the Capitol, and you are not their show dog. You are Cedar Moore, and that is all. It is enough." With that, I open the door and stand back so he can pass. He pauses when he's reached the hallway and looks back, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Thank you, Sea," he says, nodding his head at me. I nod back.

"I want to help you Cedar. Remember District Four and why life is worth living. Remember that, and you've got a chance." My voice is shaking now as I remember the multiple times I almost took my life when I thought there was nothing left to live for. There was, there was so much, but I didn't take enough time to think about it. I was angry and depressed and scared. I had no home and no family. Death was what I craved.

And I don't want questions of what life holds to be the undoing of Cedar Moore.

"Don't worry about me too much, Ms. Farley," he says, throwing me a quick smile. I catch a glance of perfect white teeth.

"Please call me Sea," I chuckle, following him down the hall and throwing my hair into a bun. "You make me feel old."  
"You are old, Ms. Farley," he teases, picking up his pace. I catch up to him and throw out a fist as if to punch him playfully on the shoulder but stop myself at the last second. He is my tribute and I am his mentor. There is no place for fun and games here.

"Sorry," I mutter, letting my arm drop to my side. "I mistaken you for-" I bite my tongue to stop the words from flowing freely. I was going to say he reminds me of Tray Kimberly, the boy I met on the train over a decade ago. Cedar's chestnut hair is only a few shades lighter than the dark mop that covered Tray's head, and his eyes are wide with confidence. We stood in this exact corridor, Tray and I, but I was wearing a small green dress and my skin was an odd shade of gray from the sickness I had carried.

"I promise I won't forget who I am, okay?" the boy asks, pushing his hair out of his face. His mouth is upturned in a knowing smile and I remember what Shay said. He's smart; he knows how to solve things. All I have to give him are the resources.

"What's 356 times 980?" I ask him suddenly, eyeing him curiously.

"348880," he answers with a shrug. "Why?"

I gasp in surprise under my breath. I saw that problem written on Shay's math homework one time, I know the answer. And he's right.

"No reason," I muse. "No reason at all." And although I am still worried, I think maybe Cedar is going to hold his own just fine. Math might not get him through the games, but if he can survive like he can multiply, I don't think there will be a problem.

We reach the door and I fling it open, savoring the burst of warm Capitol sunlight that hits my face.

"After you," I say with a smile, gesturing at Cedar to exit the train. He nods, hops down, and stands in the walkway, once again gazing at the skyscrapers surrounding us.

I turn to see Brett making her way down the corridor and she too exits the train, almost hitting me in the face with her book. Smirking, I turn once more to look for Red, but he's already standing there. He's striding toward me swiftly, his feet pounding against the aluminum floor of the train.

He flips the collar of his coat up as he moves and ruffles his hair so it stands in a wild mess around his face. He stares at me with dauntless brown eyes and all I can see in my stunned daze are his striking cheekbones and the look of danger on his face. Then he's towering over me and taking my face into his callused hands. His head turns to the side and he leans into me, pressing his lips to mine. He kisses me which such force I forget where I am for just a moment. Then he pushes backward, releasing my face and jumping out of the train. I stand against the wall, breathing heavily, my cheeks flushed and my lips swollen. I haven't been kissed like that in years. Hell, I'm not sure I've ever been kissed like that. He had complete control, and it was out of nowhere. And then he was gone without a word, walking away as if nothing had happened. I have to admit that was pretty badass.

I stumble off the train, hoping I don't look too flustered, and follow my team down the sidewalk that leads to the training center. I'm going to face a lot these next few weeks, but right now I don't really care. I laugh silently as the thought hits me. Red Cresta has this whole romance thing right. Damn straight that's how you kiss a woman.

* * *

****Cedar's POV:**

"What is this weird...splotch you have on your shoulder?" a woman named Eustacia chirps as she eyes my arm warily. Her short hair is gelled up into two pink spikes that stick out in opposite directions and her eyes are doused in a heavy coating of puke colored eye shadow. I glance down and see nothing unusual about my bronze skin. "A tan line?" I offer blandly. Eustacia's eyebrows furrow. "Tan line?" she echoes. I roll my eyes. Of course tan lines would be foreign here, where appearance is everything. I would bet my life savings, which I'll admit, isn't much, that Eustacia wouldn't be caught dead outside if her skin were different shades of brown in different places.

"We'll have to take care of that," she clucks, shaking her head so forcefully that little specks of silver dust fly out of her hair and land on my face.

I remember what Red said on the train. All of these people are blonde, bossy, and bouncy. My lips curl up in the beginning of a smile. Eustacia isn't blonde, but she is definitely the other two.

"Shut up," she demands, taking my shoulders and thrusting me back on the table. "Your voice is distracting me." I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. If I relax and let them poke and prod me it will all be over soon.

The first image that appears behind my closed eyelids is Shay. Her hair is in its signature French braid and she's wearing leather pants and a wool sweater. Her blue scarf is wrapped around her neck. She smiles at me, showing the gap where she knocked out her molar when she fell on the steps leading up to her house a few years ago.

"What are you doing Cedar?" she asks, her voice full of laughter. Shay's voice is never full of laughter. Then again, this is all in my head.

She reaches her arm out and curls her fingers as if to touch my cheek. "They could kill me," she whispers, her lips carefully pronouncing each word. "They know you love me. The Capitol knows everything." She spins around, blinking her perfect blue eyes. "And the Capitol doesn't like my family." She raises one finger and places it to the glowing skin of her neck. She begins to press in until a spot of blood bubbles up around the tiny wound. "I don't have any scars, Cedar," she continues. "But I will." Then she brings her hands up to cover her face and she's gone.

I open my eyes with a start. Eustacia clucks her tongue but doesn't look up from my hair. I settle back down on the table and try to slow my racing heart.

I think I've known it since I stepped on the train. I can't love Shay Farley. She's Sea's daughter and I'm no fool. I know that the Cresta family is a touchy subject in the Capitol. If I'm attached to Shay in _that _way, The Capitol could use it against me, and against her family. They could hurt her.

"Done!" Eustacia chirps, flying to her feet and pushing me off the table. I stumble to my feet and hold my arms out obediently as she measures my waist.

"Your stylist, File, will be here soon. He's an absolute joy." She leans in, her sparkly eyes flitting from side to side. "And you didn't hear it from me, but it's been said that he was involved in a Capitol scandal many years ago." She smiles giddily. "I wonder what it was." I grunt in agreement. I try not to focus on her constant chirping as she circles me, taking more measurements. It's like being pecked at by a giant bird.

The door behind us opens and a man with spiky purple hair walks in. Eustacia straightens up quickly.

"Remember," she whispers in my ear. "You didn't hear it from me."

"Are you going on about that Capitol scandal, or whatever you call it, again?" File asks, humor clear in his voice. Eustacia's cheeks turn a deep shade of fuchsia and she shuffles away without another word. File chuckles and makes his way over to me.

"Cedar Moore, is it?" he asks politely. I nod quickly and he smirks again. "I can tell you're anxious."

"Smart man," I say.

File leans back on the counter and looks me up and down.

"You're acquainted with the Cresta's?" he muses. I nod again.

"I know them both very well. Especially Sea Farley. Such a wonderful girl." He smiles a kind smile, one that wrinkles the skin around his eyes. "And I heard they have a child now?"

"Shay," I say automatically, the word natural in my mouth from having said it hundreds, thousands of times.

"Hmm. Knowing Sea, Shay doesn't know much of her parent's days in the games?" he asks, but it seems like a rhetorical question.

"Hardly anything," I respond. File glances at the package that presumably holds my chariot outfit sitting in the corner.

"There _was_ a Capitol scandal, you know," he says suddenly. "But that was a long time ago, with a different President. I doubt anyone even remembers." He stands up and picks up the package. His fingers pull at the top until it rips open, revealing soft blue fabric.

"Really?" I ask, testing him. "Do you really believe that no one remembers it?" File hesitates; his long fingers inches above my costume.

"You're quick, aren't you?" he asks, the smile still plastered to his face.

"I've been told so," I respond, only half to mock him.

"Hmm," he mumbles, and takes the outfit out of the box. It's a long blue ribbon. I raise an eyebrow in surprise but let File elaborately wind the fabric around me. It's knotted strategically in the right places and makes me look a bit like a mermaid from the old children's stories that Shay has in her house. I bite my lip as her smiling face appears in my head again. I can't love her. I won't. I can't.

"And now for the net!" File cries cheerfully, sounding more like a Capitol citizen than before. Of course net is involved. We're from the fishing district.

He pulls out a long bundle of net; the fancy stuff only merchant's have the pleasure of using, and hangs it over my shoulders like a cape. Then he takes out a smaller piece and drapes it over my face, attaching it to a headband made of heavy blue jewels.

"You look like Poseidon," File says, beaming at me. "And your chestnut hair completes the look."

"Who the hell is Poseidon?" I ask.

"The mighty sea god," he says, looking at me as if I've just asked him how babies are made.

"I don't read much, if that's from a book," I say apologetically. He sighs dramatically. "You should. It's good for the arteries."

"Not the brain?" I ask.

"Well if Sea has been honest with me, your brain doesn't need much help," he chuckles. He plants his hands on my back and steers me out of the room, all the while muttering something about kids these days ignoring all the important things in life.

Sea, Red, and Brett are waiting for us in the hall. It is quite a sight, seeing the three of them together. Red is leaning nonchalantly against the wall. His mouth is pulled up into a half-smirk and his arms are crossed across his chest. Sea is standing as straight as a statue, her entire posture screaming "worried" but her eyes hold a glint that wasn't there on the train. And Brett, well Brett is being Brett. Her hands are on her hips and she's glaring at me when I come out of the room. She looks like she's sneering but that could just be how she looks all the time. I smile. Brett has bitchy resting face.

"You look like a Christmas present," she announces.

"I'm Poseidon," I say proudly, jutting my chin out at her. She rolls her eyes at me but doesn't answer. She's a hypocrite, really, for she's wearing the same net as a cape and over her eyes. The only difference is that she's wearing a long, see-through dress and a blue leotard underneath. Her thick hair is piled up on top of her head in the shape of a seashell. Her scar is adorned with glitter. She looks beautiful despite the scowl on her face.

With a nod of approval from File, we head down to the elevator that will deposit us at the tribute parade. Brett stands next to me in the elevator but intentionally averts her eyes and pretends like I don't exist.

"What kind of a name is Brett, anyway?" I ask just to tease her. "Isn't that sort of male-oriented?" She whips her head around and shoots daggers at me with her eyes.

"You shouldn't be talking, tree boy," she says sharply. I chuckle as she lets out a huff of breath and turns her attention back on the doors of the elevator.

"Some tension between you two?" Red asks, his voice alive with laughter. "Some..." he wiggles his eyebrows, "special tension?"

Sea groans and smacks her husband on the arm.

"Not everything is sexual, Red."

He grins and kisses her on the forehead.

"But most things are."

So we enter the room full of tributes in their outrageous outfits and deadly expressions and we find the district four chariot. My eyes fall on the tributes from one. The girl is in heels too high for her own good and the boy is in a brilliant gold robe. Just from looking at them, I can tell they'd rather be killing something than flashing their looks for the Capitol.

The other pair that grabs my attention is from District 12. I know they're next to nothing in these games. They're filler, pawns, and obstacles for the careers. They've never had a victor. The girl has long dark hair and pale skin. Her arms are dotted with thousands of freckles and her eyes are large and grayish blue. She's wearing nothing but a black piece of fabric that looks a bit too much like lingerie. The boy is wearing a dark suit and looks five hundred times more comfortable than his partner.

File gives me a pat on the back, turning my attention back to my chariot and making glitter fly everywhere, and wishes me luck. Brett climbs in next to me. We're one odd team. The girl who seems to be constantly PMSing, the couple who's scared of their past, the stylist who loves stories a little too much, and the boy who has to find a way to banish love from his heart.


End file.
